


Imagine How He'll Sound

by thisgirlsays22



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (Which I'm guessing is a requirement in this fandom), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Hair-pulling, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22035427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisgirlsays22/pseuds/thisgirlsays22
Summary: “Do you like men?” Jaskier asks. There are better pick up lines at his disposal, but he thinks perhaps they won’t work on a man like Geralt, that the best path forward is the most direct route.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 224
Kudos: 6699
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	Imagine How He'll Sound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ConstantCacoethes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstantCacoethes/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [imagine how he'll sound](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22618528) by [placid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/placid/pseuds/placid)



> This ship grabbed me in record time, and I had to contribute something. Thank you, Zam for 1) reccing the show 2) betaing this and for your long-standing love and in-depth knowledge of all things Witcher related.

“I’m a bard, not a sorcerer’s apprentice,” Jaskier says as he pours the vial of ghoul’s blood into a chipped bowl he’d charmed from some girls in the kitchen. Despite his haughty indignation, he doesn’t mind sitting at the low-wooden table across from Geralt as they work. 

There’s rumor of a vampire preying upon the city’s residents, and Geralt had told him that if he was going to continue following him around, nipping at his heels, he may as well make himself useful. 

This is the fourth time he’s crossed paths with Geralt--though ‘crossed’ implies he’d not intentionally sought him out under the guise of needing further inspiration given the relative success of the first song Geralt had inspired. Which Jaskier has now begun ending with, “And toss a coin to your bard as well.” Thanks to that song, Jaskier is now able to buy fresh vegetables instead of pocketing ones thrown at him on stage, which he's deemed a success. 

Tonight he’s generously used some of the money he’s saved to rent two rooms at the inn where he’s now helping Geralt prepare for his inevitable confrontation with the vampire. Geralt can pay him back for his kindness--though he suspects, possibly, that Geralt will not--once he’s received his coin for his troubles. 

“You complain, you leave,” Geralt replies. The light from the candelabra behind him makes his pale skin glow and casts flattering shadows across his face. He looks so warm and inviting like this. Jaskier looks back down at the bowl. “Perhaps your audience will want to hear you sing about making Black Blood.” 

“I don’t know about _that._ Seems a bit technical for their interests. Too instructive. Let’s keep it to the grand battles.” 

“Here.” Geralt pushes over two large mushrooms. “Grind this into a powder.” 

“With what exactly? Do you just carry around a mortar and pestle with you wherever you go?” 

“You’re the creative type, I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” 

He stands and places the mushrooms on the floor and begins to grind them down with one of the legs of his chair. 

“That wasn’t what I had in mind.” When he looks up, Jaskier swears that Geralt is trying to hide a smile. “And you know I’m going to have to drink that.”

“You’ve had worse,” Jaskier says, sweeping the crushed powder into his cupped palm. 

“You know,” Jaskier starts, not exactly sure where he is going with what he’s about to say but pressing on nonetheless, “you’re a better teacher than I’m accustomed to. I’ll give you that.” 

“Why’s that?” Geralt spares him a quick glance, a flash of his cat-like eyes. 

“You’re not beating me with a cane,” he answers cheerfully. 

Geralt pauses and fixes Jaskier with a long, steady look. There’s something odd and serious in it, but then Geralt says, “Not the worst idea,” and Jaskier laughs, his chest growing warm when he sees that Geralt is smiling too. 

He often finds himself staring at Geralt’s lips for long stretches of time, and once he’s smiling it’s almost impossible to look away. 

This might be why, once Geralt has gathered up his things and is about to head to the other room, Jaskier stops him. 

“Do you like men?” Jaskier asks. There are better pick up lines at his disposal, but he thinks perhaps they won’t work on a man like Geralt, that the best path forward is the most direct route. 

He’s been thinking about this for a while now, has imagined many different scenarios, and decided that this method of seduction is the most likely for success and the least likely to earn a beating. 

There’s no surprise in Geralt’s eyes. His mouth is drawn in a hard long line, expression unreadable as he looks at Jaskier. “From time to time.” 

Jaskier waits and finally Geralt sighs. His hand drops from the bolt on the door and he puts his pack down on the floor. Without looking at Jaskier, he turns and walks towards the bed, and with a grin spreading across his face, Jaskier follows. 

Geralt is already unbuttoning his tunic, and Jaskier is already hard.

“You’re easy, Witcher,” he flirts. 

Geralt tilts Jaskier’s chin up with two fingers. “Don’t push your luck, Bard.” His eyes are bright, and any retort Jaskier may have drummed up dies on his lips as Geralt bends forward to kiss him. 

“I could write a thousand songs about your body and every scar.” Jaskier runs a hand down Geralt’s chest. There’s a teasing lilt to his voice that belies the truth in his words. They haven’t done more yet than kiss and rut against each other, but Jaskier wonders if he’d ever tire of rolling naked in the sheets with Geralt of Rivia. He thinks perhaps not. 

“Please don’t,” Geralt says, but when Jaskier’s hand reaches between his legs, Geralt is hard and wanting. Jaskier wraps his hand around Geralt, and as he strokes, he begins to murmur the words to a new song, mostly nonsensical, mostly full of various words for cock, but a little bit about the beauty of the body beneath him. 

To his surprise, Geralt doesn’t punch him or literally kick him from the bed, but instead lets out a low moan and thrusts into Jaskier’s hand. 

“ _I make the great Witcher moan. Imagine how he’ll sound when he’s blown.”_

“Enough,” Geralt says, hand clasping around Jaskier’s wrist. He tugs him forward into a kiss and without Jaskier’s poetry and singing there is only the feeling of Geralt’s lips against his, large hands moving across his back, the surprisingly soft strands of Geralt’s hair tangled between Jaskier’s fingers. 

Has he wanted to run his fingers through Geralt’s hair since he met him? Perhaps not, but his hands are acting as though the desire has been there for quite some time. Geralt bites down on his lower lip, and Jaskier’s mind goes blank as his grinds himself relentlessly against the rock of muscle that is Geralt’s thigh.

Jaskier had every intention of making good on his word to discover the sounds a witcher makes when he’s blown, but instead, he finds himself flipped over into his back, Geralt kissing a hot trail down from his chest to his stomach to his thighs to his--oh, _fuck._

Gods, the things that mouth can do. 

“Fucking an old man _does_ have its benefits,” Jaskier manages to quip. Geralt’s teeth graze ever so slightly, warningly, against the sensitive skin of his cock. Jaskier smiles up at the ceiling and says no more. 

It takes almost no time at all before Geralt has Jaskier writhing on the bed, begging Geralt for more and more and _more._ Geralt keeps tonguing the sensitive underside of his cock, and Jaskier is ready to come down his throat, whining and whimpering and begging, when Geralt pulls back and stands. 

“Where the fuck are you going?” Jaskier demands. 

Geralt ignores him and retrieves a bottle of clear oil from his pack, still waiting patiently by the door. 

“That had better not have gotten mixed in with your other potions,” Jaskier warns. 

Geralt smirks and the way he moves back towards the bed makes Jaskier feel very much like he is prey who desperately, gratefully, wants to be devoured. 

But he stops, looming above Jaskier as he says, “I want you to fuck me.” 

Jaskier lifts an eyebrow, his heart hammering with excitement. He’s not about to question this sudden gift he’s been presented. He squeezes himself, takes in a few breaths to pull himself back from the edge he’d been teetering off of.

“Come here, then.” Jaskier stretches out his hand and takes the small bottle of liquid from Geralt. 

He tries not to read too much into it, tries not to think, _he trusts me_. Geralt is a man and Jaskier has met and slept with many men who like to fuck and be fucked. Geralt could fell him with a flick of his wrist, trust isn’t his concern, so Jaskier quiets that small voice in his head that is trying to knit meaning from a ball of yarn. 

Geralt grins, still feral and feline, and Jaskier’s longing spreads through him like wildfire. His body burns with want and need for the man before him. Geralt’s cock is thick and red and gorgeous, and Jaskier spills some of the oil onto his fingers before he begins to suck and tease Geralt, still standing before him. He kneads Geralt’s ass and then moves a slicked finger to his entrance, working one then two inside as Geralt moans helplessly above him. 

A hand touches the back of Jaskier’s head, cupping it gently as he moves. The tenderness of the gesture does maddening things to him, and he pulls back, away. Geralt’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes dark, so dark and beautiful. “On your knees, Witcher.” 

Geralt does as he’s told, which is possibly the sexiest thing Jaskier could have imagined. He pushes into Geralt with more care than is strictly necessary, nipping and licking his back once Geralt has taken him to the hilt. 

The feeling of Geralt’s hot, tight heat around him, the long muscular lines of his back, is almost too much to bear. It may be the most exquisite, perfect moment he’s experienced, and he wants to savor it. 

Alas, it’s not to be. 

“Would you fucking _move_ , Jaskier?” 

His hands reach for Geralt’s hair, brushing against his shoulders, and he yanks it back with enough force to show Geralt he’s being an impatient shit but not enough force to argue that Jaskier is not a gentleman. 

Geralt’s moan, the way he begins fucking himself back against Jaskier’s cock, makes him repeat the motion again and again as he thrusts into Geralt. 

“Is this how you want it?” 

“Yes, Jaskier, yes,” Geralt pants. 

Briefly, he wonders how many have had Geralt like this, but it doesn’t matter, not really. Not when his right hand is full of Geralt’s hair and his left is squeezing his hip bones hard enough to leave bruises on any human man. 

“Harder,” Geralt commands, and in or out of bed, Jaskier would give anything to Geralt when commanded in that voice. The bed begins to creak beneath them and Jaskier thinks wildly, _let it fucking break for all I care._

One of Geralt’s hands is twisting in the sheets and the other isn’t visible from Jaskier’s vantage point, but from the way the tendons in his forearm are flexing, he can tell that Geralt is fisting his own cock, and the image of it sends a desperate shudder of pleasure through Jaskier, his hips snapping forward and he can’t hold back much longer. 

“You feel so fucking good,” he says and it comes out in a hoarse hiss. 

He leans forward and bites between Geralt’s shoulder blades, lest he begin babbling incoherent nonsense or, worse, _romantic_ incoherent nonsense. 

Geralt tightens around him, body stiffening, and it’s too much, too good. With a final, deep thrust Jaskier spills inside of him, and he thinks with a satisfied sort of pleasure they might have come at the same time. The kind of thing bards of a lesser ilk might even sing about. 

“You’ve made a mess of the sheets,” Jaskier chides. He cannot help but smirk as Geralt glares at him. “Good thing we’ve got the second room. Never say I’m not prepared.” 

To Jaskier’s surprise--and delight, if he’s being honest--Geralt responds, not with a wry quip or sarcastic barb, but by kissing him, soft and sweet. 

After the vampire has been suitably dealt with and Jaskier thinks he has the start of the next tale in Geralt’s epic, he asks where Geralt is headed. 

“North.” 

Jaskier’s jaw drops in mock surprise. “Funnily enough, I’m headed that way too.” 

“What a coincidence,” Geralt says archly but doesn’t argue. 

This time, after ten minutes, Geralt offers a hand to Jaskier and hoists him on top of Roach. 

To hide his pleasure--not from Geralt whose back he is facing, but from himself--Jaskier clears his throat. “So how does one go about killing a kikimora, most efficiently?” But before Geralt can answer Jaskier's rhyming words with kikimora until Geralt tells him to shut up and begins his explanation with the same methodical, hypnotizing patience he'd shown when explaining how to craft Black Blood. Jaskier smiles at his back and listens. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments always appreciated <3
> 
> If you want to scream over these two (and let me know if a ship name ever gets settled on), you can find me [on Twitter ](https://twitter.com/aerbear22)
> 
> Edit: I caved and made a [ sideblog on tumblr for it too](https://geralt-jaskier.tumblr.com/) *sigh*


End file.
